The Reality Conspiracy (49 page)

Ronald twisted the key again. The starter groaned, slowing ominously as the battery lost power. "Prob'ly the goddamn timin' chain. Always goddamn somethin' t'piss my money away on! An' jes' when a fella thinks he's gettin' ahead. .

Last month, Ronald had received a thirty-five-cent-an-hour raise. He and Betty were planning to put a little away so they could add a deck to the south side of their trailer.

And now this. Christ. One goddamn thing after another.

For a moment Ronald thought that maybe he was very much like St. Christopher. One minute he's a wealthy man, the next minute he's paying through the nose for some mechanical fucking at thirty christly dollars an hour. Not to mention the cost of the frikkin' tow!

"Well, sir, Mr. Christopher," Ronald said, "looks like we're gonna be hoofin' it."

The woods around him were filled with the silvery luster of cloud-filtered moonlight. Long as the moon stayed out he wouldn't have to walk home in the dark.

On either side of him towering thick-leafed trees merged their branches high above the road. It made him feel as if he were walking in a cathedral. Ahead, the road angled to the left and vanished from sight.

It was there he saw the glow.

A pale light moved through the forest as if someone were walking among the trees, carrying a lantern.

Goddamnedest thing
. . . he thought.

He stopped, staring at the moving light as it came closer to him. He rubbed his eyes, took another look, and rubbed his eyes again. It was still there, only now it didn't seem to be a light at all. Instead, it was a glowing shape. Ronald's mind worked to reject the image. No fuckin' way! He simply could not be seeing a six-foot-tall glowing man striding through the trees.

Toward him!

Ronald blinked. Looked away. Looked back.

Rapid-fire, his mind pushed a confusion of theories at him: it's a ghost; a game warden in some glow-in-the-dark uniform; a luminous gas spurting from a fault line in the forest floor; a new kid's toy, a phosphorescent kite maybe. It's somebody—probably Joe—playing a frikkin' trick on me?

But it was none of those things and he knew it.

And the light wasn't shining on the thing like a spotlight or a flashlight beam. Instead, the glow was coming from the thing itself. No doubt about it, the thing was actually giving off the light.

Ronald stood rooted to his spot at the roadside.

Now the thing was close enough so he could make out facial features. It looked like . . . a man, a shining man. God, maybe it was a ghost after all! Ronald could distinguish a golden beard, and golden hair that hung to the man's shoulders. And he wore a long white robe secured at the waist with a golden cord. The man's gentle blue eyes were the kindest Ronald had ever seen. They too seemed to shine with an otherworldly intensity.

"Come closer and be welcome," the man said. The smiling lips never moved, but Ronald could hear the voice. It was gentle and sincere. Musical.

Ronald tried to move but he couldn't. He was frozen—paralyzed—transfixed like a deer in the headlights of his Scout.

The radiant apparition floated closer. Now Ronald could feel a warmth, like a gentle summer breeze. The warm light felt good, like sunshine on his skin.

"You know me," the figure said, "and you have always been loyal and true. I bring great news for you, and for the world."

"W-what news?"

"There is a new time close at hand. A change. Only the strong of heart will be prepared to meet what is to come."

"Ar-are y-you an . . . angel?" Ronald asked.

"I am your angel." When the figure smiled the light on Ronald's face seemed to warm him even more. "I am Mr. Christopher."

Still its lips didn't move. "You are the one I choose to bring my message to the world. You are like Noah. Like Bernadette. Like Joseph Smith and the children at Fatima. You are of the chosen."

"I . . ." Ronald's head whirled; doubt warred with his senses. "Whatcha want me to say? Whatcha want me to do?"

"Believe. Pray. Cleanse your spirit and seek forgiveness. Tell your priest he must come to the mountain."

Not knowing what to say or what to do, Ronald dropped to his knees.

The thing smiled down at him. Perfect teeth glistened like gemstones behind its motionless lips. "I will return to this place tomorrow night. Come back and tell me you have done what I ask."

"Naa . . . now, let me get this straight," said Ronald, his dry lips forming words with difficulty, "you want me to go talk to that new priest? You want me to go there right now?"

The smiling man nodded within his luminous cocoon.

"Which mountain you talkin' about?"

"He will know. He will understand. Go to him at once."

"But . . ."

The glowing figure faded a little, turned cloudy, then became a churning pillar of mist. It dimmed, it darkened, it was gone.

Ronald felt his heart pounding. He discovered he was breathing way too rapidly. Pains in his knees from kneeling on the roadside forced him to stand up. He brushed dust off his pants, all the time squinting into the trees for some sign of his unearthly visitor.

The angel was gone.

Glancing repeatedly over his shoulder, Ronald returned to his Scout.

As he opened the door and got in, he realized that he was sweating something wicked, even in the cool midnight air.

The key in the ignition felt cold between his fingers.

He turned it.

The starter groaned.

"Well, how the tuck am I s'posed to go
anywhere
if my christly Scout don't work?"

C
asey had been alone for a long time.

Upstairs, directly under the slanting roof, the temperature had soared during the afternoon until the farmhouse bedroom felt like a steam bath. Now, after several hours of darkness, it had cooled off. It was almost comfortable.

Casey could smell her own body odor. Her shirt and slacks stuck to her limbs. The urine in the plastic dishpan was rancid, foul. She'd been tempted to dump it out onto the porch roof, but when she tried to open the window, she found it was stuck.

What time was it, anyway? She couldn't tell. She just knew it was late.

And it was so very dark. There were no electric lights to turn on, no lamps, candles, or matches. The only illumination was the faint neon glow of the computer screen, and outside the round white light of the moon.

For a long while Casey had stared at the moon. She imagined it too was a screen on which she envisioned pleasant scenes. Her mother's smiling face. Her dad laughing just the way he did after he made one of his corny jokes. Karen's pretty smile. Once Casey had even pictured Dad and Karen holding hands, two tiny images framed in the white circle of the moon, a bride and groom on a wedding cake. Maybe she should object to the thought of Dad and Karen together. But she didn't. She liked it.

She missed them both.

Casey gritted her teeth and pushed away a tear.

McCurdy had left the room hours ago and she'd been alone ever since.

She recalled the gunshot, the strange white light, and a terrifying commotion downstairs: loud voices, heavy feet. And the hysterical cries of a man who'd screamed and screamed.

Then everything was quiet.

After that, crying and cringing in the corner, Casey remained alert, expecting McCurdy to come back any minute. But he hadn't come. And the house had been silent for— She didn't know how long. Hours.

Okay, that must have been McCurdy she'd seen leaving with another man, driving off down the road. So he was gone. Maybe he'd never return. He'd left her alone in the house, trapped on the second floor, with no access to food or water and no way to send a message for help.

Again, like so many times before, she wheeled herself to the door and peeked out into the dark upstairs hall.

There was no motion. No sound.

For a while she had done something very like praying. Over and over in her mind she had said, "Let everything be all right. Please let me get out of here. Let everything be all right, please. Please."

But she had not addressed these thoughts to anyone in particular. No, she certainly wasn't praying.

Casey didn't understand why it was so difficult to pray. At a time like this it should be easy, even automatic. After all, it seemed only God could free her from this horrible old house.

But praying had never come naturally to her.

Her parents had never taken her to church: she'd had no formal religious education. Nonetheless, in a way she did believe in God. In fact, sometimes, back when she was a little girl, she recalled how she had timidly, experimentally, tried to talk to Him. But not understanding, she had always expected some kind of answer, some acknowledgment, and it had never come.

Three years ago, when she was in the hospital, Casey had tried praying again. Really praying. Trying to do it right this time. And again it hadn't worked. Her mom died anyway.

And Casey had lain, no, she'd actually lived in that hospital bed. For months. Refusing all the time to pray for herself. She learned then, for sure, that she did believe in God. She'd believed enough to be angry with Him for His rudeness and His silence. Although her own suffering had been great, she had refused to ask Him for anything ever again.

She was older now and she realized praying was just a way of talking to herself. It was positive thinking, a method of dealing with her fear in short affirmative instructions to herself. "Please let me get out of here. Please let Dad find me. Don't let this crazy man hurt me."

Prayer was a way of maintaining hope.

Well, if positive thinking had gotten her out of the hospital, it could get her out of here, too.

Casey set the brakes on both wheels of her chair. Leaning forward, she was able to grab the flat metal foot supports and lift them out of the way. With both hands firmly gripping the arms, she slid forward, swung herself off the seat, and began to lower herself to the floor. Her arms vibrated with the exertion.

In a moment she was sitting on the coarse wooden floor. She wiped her hands on her pant legs, fighting the feeling of insecurity that always came when she was out of her chair.

She looked around in the darkness.

Summoning all her resolve, she permitted herself to topple sideways, supported by one hand. She lowered herself to her elbow, working her body all the way down in safe, short increments. Soon she was lying on her stomach. In this position she could pull herself along with her elbows.

It was a quick, painless crawl to the top of the stairs where she stopped to listen for noises below. Everything was quiet. Like her, the old house seemed to be holding its breath.

With no illumination, she could see very little in the darkness below. Nothing seemed to be moving. She was almost confident she was alone, except for maybe—and this hit her with all the force and clarity of a blow to the windpipe—the dead man! Casey was pretty sure someone had been shot, murdered on the floor below.

Was there a dead body down there waiting for her?

Was more than one person dead?

What about McCurdy? Had he left with another man? Would they come back?

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the straight as an arrow route between here and the outside door. She had to get out and the sooner the better.

But she had to be careful.

Her chin hovered inches above the top step. She studied the descent as best she could in the lightless hallway. The stairs might be a problem. It would certainly be dangerous to try to crawl down headfirst.

Before she'd been discharged from the hospital, physical therapists in the rehab unit had taught her what to do if she found herself in a situation like this. Grabbing the banister, she pulled her dead legs around, and sat up on the top step. With her legs stretched out in front, pointing down, she adjusted her spine so it was almost perpendicular with the floor.

Essentially, getting downstairs would be just like lowering herself from the wheelchair several times in a row.